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Tuesday, January 28, 2014

‘I can’t understand,’ said Thoko, ‘why
people keep voting wrong leaders into government. We always finish up with people
who told us they would work for us and make our lives better, but as soon as
they get into office they start filling their own bellies and leaving the rest
of us to starve!’

‘That’s how humans behave,’ I replied
sadly. ‘There’s nothing to be done about it.’

‘Except to throw them out when their
behaviour becomes intolerable!’ suggested Thoko.

‘Even that doesn’t help much. You can
be sure that the next king will become insufferable within 90 days.’

‘I sometimes think,’ said Thoko, ‘that
we should elect a complete simpleton as king, some half-wit just to hand out
the medals on Independence Day, kick the ball to start each cup-final, wear a
silly gown to open parliament, and otherwise be harmless.’

‘You have to be careful with that sort
of thing. Idiots can be even more dangerous than clever people.’

‘Then why have people at all?’ laughed
Thoko. ‘We could just choose a dog or a goat, and dress it up in chitenge and
gold chains, to be our national symbol on ceremonial occasions.’

‘That reminds me,’ I laughed, ‘of the
story of King Chumbu, who ruled the Land of Zed a thousand years ago.’

‘Really?’ said Thoko. ‘My History
teacher has never told us about any King Chumbu.’

‘I’m not surprised,' I cackled. 'Some bits of
history are best forgotten.’ ‘So what happened?’ asked Thoko.

‘It was election time,’ I explained,
‘and it was time to elect the next king. At the first big election rally a
joker stood up waving a large lump of sweet potato, shouting Let’s elect this sweet potato!

‘And the people responded
enthusiastically, shouting in reply Yes,
let’s elect the sweet potato. All the other kings have been sour, this chumbu
is sweet. All the other kings have been pompous, let us have a humble sweet
potato. Instead of the king eating us, we shall eat the king! Everybody likes
the sweet potato! Chumbu for king!’

‘So was the chumbu elected?’

‘Oh yes. He was elected by a big
majority, and became King Chumbu.

‘And was he a sweet and humble king?’

‘Within a day of taking office he
started to swell with pride, declaring that he had been appointed by God. This
came as a terrible shock to everybody!’

‘Because they thought they had
appointed him, not God?’

‘No, because they didn’t think the
potato could speak. They thought that they had elected a king who would remain
mercifully silent. But now this one was babbling continuously in a language
spoken only by other sweet potatoes, a language called Chichumba.

‘And the worse thing was that all the
time he was babbling, he was giving orders. He ordered that all the schools
should teach Chichumba, so that all the children would understand what he was
saying.’

‘And what was he saying?’

‘He was saying that all the people who
didn’t like sweet potatoes should be locked up for insulting the king. He was
saying that there would be no more fertilizer or seeds given for growing maize,
rice, cassava or sorghum. Instead everybody had to grow sweet potatoes.

‘He declared that God was a sweet
potato, and would favour only those who were made in his image. A picture of
King Chumbu had to be on every wall, every chitenge and every coin. He changed
the name of the country from Zed to Chumbia, with a national motto of One Chumbia One Chumbu. At the big state occasions people no longer
marched up and down, but now had to roll on the ground as if they hadn’t got
legs, pretending to be sweet potatoes, and groveling in front of the Great
Chumbu.

‘How ridiculous!’

‘State occasions are always
ridiculous.’

‘And did people resist all this
nonsense?’

‘Thoko, you know how people are. They
just want to fit into the system, and get jobs by flattering the appointing
authority. They began to eat plenty of sweet potatoes to fatten themselves into
shapeless lumps, so that they looked more like the king. The more successful of
them actually became sweet potatoes.’

‘Didn’t some people resist?’

‘A few people held meetings to discuss
whether the end of human civilisation was a good idea. They were arrested and
imprisoned for holding secret meetings without a permit, and for sedition and
for treason.’

‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Thoko. ‘Didn’t
that contradict their right to freedom of assembly and freedom of expression?’

‘King Chumbu had confiscated their
constitution and instead written his own constitution on a single leaf of kalembula.’

‘Wasn’t that a bit small for writing a
constitution?’

‘Not really. It just read Never offend King Chumbu. He is the law, the
judgment and the imprisonment.’

‘He
wouldn’t listen to any discontent?’

‘A chumbu has no ears to listen. No
way of bending without breaking. He is chumbu mushololwa. A perfect choice for
a dictator.’

‘So how did it all end? How was the
Land of Zed restored to us humans?’

‘It was after the king had flattened
the Zambezi Forest Reserve and in its place put the King’s Chumbu Plantation.
That was the year of the Great Plague. A terrible fungus called Chumbu
Catastrophicus wiped out all the chumbu in Chumbia. Within three months there
wasn’t a single sweet potato left in the land.’

‘The human’s returned?’

‘The few hundred remaining Zedians
escaped from jail. Others returned from the diaspora. Human civilization was
restored.’

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

I was sitting on
the veranda, solemnly contemplating the first brandy of the day, when round the
corner came Khondwa in a dusty disheveled school uniform, and plonked himself
dejectedly onto a wobbly cane chair. ‘Hullo Grandpa,’ he grunted. ‘What are you
doing here?’

‘I
was about to ask you the same question!’ I exclaimed. ‘As far as I know you’re
supposed to be in Ndola! You know it’s costing your parents a small fortune to send
you to that Prestige Faculty Secondary School! So now what have you done? What
are you doing back here?’

‘I
thought I’d get more sympathy from you, Grandpa. Everybody says you’re a bit of
a delinquent.’

‘Don’t
try to soft-soap me,’ I snarled. ‘That’s why your mother was so keen to send
you to this PF Secondary School, so you don’t end up like me. What has
happened? Have you been expelled?’

‘It
all started with the school bus.’

‘School bus?
School bus? What are you talking about? Did you try to steal the school bus?’

‘We
don’t have a school bus.’

I
was so irritated I poured myself another glass of brandy. ‘So how did you get
into trouble over a non-existent school bus?’

‘It
all started last term,’ he replied calmly, ‘when we prefects all had a meeting
and decided that the school needed a school bus. So we all went to see the
headmaster, Mr Chumbu Mushololwa, and told him we had decided that the school
should buy a bus.’

‘And
you were the ringleader?’

‘I
was elected as the spokesman, if that’s what you mean.’

‘So
I suppose the headmaster just told you that there was no money, and a school
bus was out of the question.’

‘Not
at all. He said that the PF was a democratic institution, and it was good that
we were coming up with our own ideas for improving the school. But the only
problem was that there was no money. But he said he would appreciate our help
in solving the problem. So he appointed us as the school’s Transport Committee,
with the task of finding out the level of enthusiasm for a school bus, and if
necessary to raise the money to buy one.’

‘But
why were you so keen to get a bus? Or was it just a political gambit to show
that the prefects had more ideas and ability than the headmaster?’

‘What
an old cynic you are, Grandpa! Without a bus we had all sorts of problems. The
local day-scholars had transport problems and most of them needed a school bus.
But worst of all we had no bus for school trips. Our Debating Society couldn’t
visit other schools for debating contests. We couldn’t go on educative trips to
visit factories or mines or council chambers, let alone development projects.
All our lessons were out of the textbooks, but we could never see anything in
practice. With our own bus we would be able to take better control over our own
curriculum, and find out how the world really works!’

‘Hmm,’
I said. ‘And did you persuade the other students and their parents that the
school needed a bus? Did you manage to collect the money?’

‘Oh
yes. We launched an enormously successful Christmas campaign. We found that all
the parents were very supportive. By the time we came back to school a couple
of weeks ago we had collected rather more than K300,000, enough to buy a new 26
seater.’

‘So
have you bought the bus?’

‘That’s
where the problem came in,’ replied Khondwa sadly. ‘Immediately we got back to
school Mr Mushololwa called the TC into his office and told us to hand over the
money to him, since only he could legally buy a vehicle on behalf of the
school.’

‘I
suppose that was true enough.’

‘But
then he said that buying a bus was merely a recommendation to him, and he would
have to put this recommendation to the school’s board of governors, bearing in
mind that the school also had other transport problems.’

‘So
what did you say to that?’

‘We
said that all of the boys and their parents would be very annoyed if they heard
that their demand for a bus was not to be respected, and if all the money we
had collected was used for something else. But he told us that according to the
terms of reference of the TC, the demand for a bus was a only recommendation to
him personally, and if members of the TC leaked their recommendation to other
students then this would be a breach of their loyalty to the headmaster,
warranting instant expulsion.’

‘So
did anyone on the TC blab?’

‘We
were all too scared,’ admitted Khondwa.

‘How
pathetic,’ I sneered.

‘Everything
was quiet for about a week,’ continued Khondwa. ‘Then the rumour went round
that the headmaster had been given the money, but was refusing to buy the bus.’

‘Then
there was a riot?’

‘Still
everything remained quiet. Then two days later, the headmaster drove into the
school in his new Mercedes E250. That same night a group of boys gently rolled
the car onto its side, and put a match to the fuel line. It lit up the sky
something marvelous!’

‘So
you’ve been expelled!’

‘The
entire school has been expelled! Now we all have to apply for re-admission.’

‘Very
good,’ I laughed. ‘Now I see you were right, the school bus has improved your
understanding of how the world really works! I always knew that the PF would
give you a good education!’